The Chevalier

  He laughs. “Maybe so, but given the pitch of your voices, it was one that anyone near the Marne could have heard. Woke me up often enough.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s no concern of yours,” I say.

  He waves my dissent aside. “I wonder which is more remarkable – sleeping with a King, or giving pleasure to an Empress?”

  “Will you never stop indulging your foul imagination?” says Marie.

  “Well, now, let’s see. Normally, for a Frenchman to indulge in swordplay with a foreign noblewoman would be run of the mill,” he muses. “You have only to ask Richelieu for precise etiquette in these matters. However, the fact that she is the Empress and you were dressed as a woman complicates things. That does make any union quite extraordinary.”

  “Nothing untoward went on.” My eyes plead with Marie. “Besides, you have no knowledge of my time with her.”

  He shrugs. “No direct evidence yet, perhaps, but by the time we’ve spent a few days in Petersburg, I shall. On the other hand, my Lady, to lie with a monarch should be a special privilege. Yes, indeed. However, in the case of the Bourbons, it’s rather hard to find a slut in France who hasn’t graced the royal bed…”

  “You swine!” She springs across the carriage and tries in vain to beat at him with her fists: held up by his long arms she flails, punching the air.

  Keeping her out of range with ease, he sucks in his lips as though appreciating the problem. “No, my sweet, you put your case well, but I must give my decision that, on balance, the Chevalier has the advantage. Your adventures, sir, may even be unique. And I was forgetting that you had a variety of previous dalliances to be taken into consideration.”

  Marie gives up the fight and turns to me. “What does he mean?”

  Now, I decide, is not the best time to explain.

  “In case you were wondering, my dear,” continues Guerchy, “you’ll be interested in our lodging tonight. If I remember, the landlord’s wife was very friendly. I thought nothing of it then, but now it all slots into place.”

  I find his accompanying gesture lewd and unpardonable. Yet his tactic is faultless. Marie turns away from me; she and I seem to be more at odds than ever.

  * * *

  Our carriage clambers up the hills of Tubingen and halts outside the Red Cat. We alight in the coaching yard, and I gaze at the church tower thrusting into the heavens. The sun is gone behind it, its penumbra shining with a saintly glow. I wish to study it, yet my Lord is keen to renew his acquaintance here without delay. He pushes open the inn door, dragging Marie with him, and advances upon Rosa and Johann who are serving a few groups of students in the large parlour. I try my best to melt into the shadows.

  “Lord Douglas! An un-un-unexpected return,” says Johann, more animated by our coming than I’ve seen before. The students must be poor indeed.

  “Good to see you again, my man. You haven’t met my wife, of course,” Guerchy replies. Marie gives a little sigh but curtseys nonetheless.

  Rosa reciprocates. “We didn’t have the pleasure. You were with another lady…” She smiles at the memory, I’m sure. I hope she will go no further.

  “That’s right. Well, by an odd coincidence, her brother’s travelling with us now,” says Guerchy, turning to look at me.

  I cannot think why I am proving so shy: this introduction was bound to happen. I am compelled to step forward. “Sir, Madam. Charles, the Chevalier d’Éon de Beaumont, at your service.”

  Rosa peers closely at me. “It really is a remarkable family likeness. Which of you is the older?”

  “My sister,” I confess, happy to add some measure of truth.

  “Well, do have an enjoyable stay, as she did before you. I was forgetting, though, there was some disturbance, wasn’t there?” Rosa runs her hand through her waves of red hair, toying with me as a cat plays with a wriggling mouse.

  “She spoke of a pistol being fired in the dead of night somewhere,” I say. “This must have been the place.”

  “A pistol fired… so there was.” Rosa nods. “Perhaps you’ll have a more restful time.”

  “What did your sister do after the… disturbance?” Marie says.

  I try my best to look both innocent and blank.

  “I think she came to bed with me,” says Rosa. I receive a withering glance from Marie. “After your Lordship caught fire.”

  “My dear husband, what’s this I hear?” Marie says, attempting to suppress a laugh.

  “Just an unfortunate accident, no more,” Guerchy waffles. “Let’s not dwell on it.”

  Johann arrives with some beer and wine. “A blessing on your n-n-noble house of Douglas.”

  “Still taking a metaphysical view?” says Guerchy.

  He has learned a word, it seems.

  “Rearranging reality, my Lord, as ever.”

  Guerchy nods in sage agreement, pretending he knows what Johann is on about. “Ah, yes, very good. I hope your inn didn’t suffer too much after our last visit?”

  “Everything’s back to n-n-normal,” confirms Johann. “Except the lock on the young person’s door’s n-n-n-not fixed.”

  “What’s that?” Marie’s tone is sharp.

  “Lord Douglas tripped over in the passage and fired his pistol at the door by accident,” Johann explains, despite frantic hand-waving from the modest perpetrator.

  Marie summons all the hauteur of an affronted wife. “Is that so?”

  “One of those things,” Guerchy says.

  I am pleased to note that Marie clearly reckons it is not in the run of everyday events.

  “The problem is, our locksmith has been at death’s door for months,” Rosa confides. “His apprentice is waiting till he can charge a higher fee.”

  “I see,” I say. “I’m sure that I’ll feel just as safe without it.”

  It does not escape me that Guerchy throws Marie a sly, significant look.

  * * *

  Supper comes and goes amid an atmosphere of simmering resentments. As darkness falls, the travellers call a truce and retire to neighbouring rooms upstairs. In the so-called married quarters, Marie is changing into her night clothes behind a screen. Guerchy is drinking a glass of wine, a bottle of the cellar’s finest hock beside him on the table. He takes a long draught, puts down the glass and refills it.

  “Better than that bubbling rubbish.”

  “Whatever you say, husband. You’re the expert.”

  He nods, unconcerned at her raillery. “That Rosa’ll make a play for him.”

  “I’m not interested in the least.”

  “You know you are.”

  “Disgusting.” She throws a stocking over the screen. “And as for you…”

  “What do you mean?”

  The other stocking follows. “You were after him too, weren’t you?”

  “Her, you mean,” he says, his attention wandering. “No, certainly not. Now, shut up and listen.” He flaps his hands at her in sudden agitation.

  “What?”

  “I can hear voices. You want proof of his glorious commitment to ‘freedom’?” Kneeling, he bends his head to listen at the wall. A smile breaks on his craggy face. He beckons her over. She joins him in surveillance.

  * * *

  The prospect of a peaceful night does not last long. I am lying in bed, tired from the journey, drowsy from glasses of Rhenish wine and the rich food on which I’ve supped, when I hear three light taps at my bedroom door.

  “Who’s there?” I call out, but I have a shrewd idea.

  Unrestrained by any lock, Rosa slips noiselessly into the room. “It’s only me.”

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  Shaking out her long red hair so that it cascades over the shoulders of her white nightgown, she crosses the floor towards me. Pulling back one side of the coverlet, she starts to get into the bed.

  “Oh,” I exclaim, shivering in the draught. “No, Rosa, don’t do that.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “It’s just…”


  She’s under the covers before I can complete my objections. “You know the one you call your sister liked it.”

  “I know nothing of the sort. Anyway, perhaps she did, but she’s not me.”

  “Funny, I could have sworn you were her. Or, since you prefer it that way, she was you.” Her hands caress my upper arms, her hair falling in soft waves over my face.

  I try to shrug her off. “Well, we’re quite different.”

  “Different? You’ve even got the same marks on your bodies.” She examines a little mole I have upon my neck, where it abuts my throat.

  “We’ve always been very close.” I try to move away from her. “What about your husband?”

  “Him? He’s no trouble: he even sleeps like a philosopher. All the time.” Rosa’s gradually inching over, pursuing me to the side of the bed. “But you know that.”

  My hand is forced as I run out of eiderdown. “Rosa, can you keep a secret?”

  “Cross my heart.” She giggles and her hand runs down the front of my nightshirt. “Is it about your…?”

  “Seriously, now,” I grasp her hand and assume my sternest expression. “This is important.”

  “Of course.”

  “My sister and I are the same.”

  “No, really?” Rosa gasps in mock surprise. “Do you think I don’t know?”

  “I cannot deceive you: you’re such a good friend. You remember you promised to keep my secret last year? I’d like very much to discuss everything with you. But you can’t stay with me tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know Lady Douglas? She’s not who she says she is. In fact, neither is Lord Douglas.”

  Rosa shows no sign of leaving, but instead snuggles down, making her head comfortable on the bolster. “The games you Frenchy people play. Who is she then?”

  “Marie de Courcelles, a young widow. She’s the woman I love. I think sometimes she even loves me. But he’s her guardian in real life, a vicious brute. He’s set his heart, if one exists, against the match. And he wants her to know you’re with me. So, much as I’d like to…”

  “Not even to stay here quietly?”

  “Not even that.”

  Rosa lies back in disappointment. “Oh well. It could never have been as amusing as the first time.” She dangles her feet floorward and creeps from the room.

  * * *

  With the many bells of the town chiming eight, an early hour considering our night’s interruption, I join Marie and Guerchy in the main parlour of the inn. Marie is sitting silent in a patch of sunshine that streams through the high windows. My Lord is acting the epicure over a plateful of cooked meats.

  Johann slouches in from the kitchens. “Will you be taking n-n-nourishment, Monsieur?”

  “No, thank you. Just some of your excellent coffee, if you will.”

  Marie offers me a reproachful glance. “Sleep well?”

  “I did.”

  “Plenty of comings and goings from your room last night,” drawls Guerchy.

  “I had a brief visit, yes,” I say.

  He munches on a mighty sausage. “Who? The lovely Rosa?”

  “She was worried about my health.”

  His eyes widen in disbelief. “Of course she was.”

  “I had been complaining to her of a headache earlier in the evening. She was kind enough to bring me a jug of water.” I pour myself a strong cup of coffee from the earthenware pot. “But I told her I’d become quite well.”

  “And soon feeling better, no doubt,” he says, reaching for the pot.

  I give him a frosty stare. “She left immediately.”

  “As quickly as she came.” He laughs, and starts to drink from his cup.

  Once again, I am fortunate that my Lord overplays his hand. Marie’s face puckers at his coarse remark. “Your speculation is obnoxious.”

  “More of a shot in the dark,” I say.

  At that moment, Rosa enters and laughs with unfettered abandon. Guerchy splutters and spits out his coffee, a black stain spreading to mark the white tablecloth.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The Splintered Mirror

  Curiously, the growing stain soon resembles a map of Europe. It is a sign for us to go. Johann’s farewells are sincere and philosophical, Rosa’s more wistful – or so I like to imagine. I am sad to leave the hosts of the Red Cat behind, but it cannot be otherwise; it is imperative we press on. For some reason Marie and Guerchy are at once asleep, stretched out across the cushions, not even stirring as our coach rattles across the stone bridge over the Neckar. It is only a short while before I join them, despite Guerchy’s snores and the buffeting from the carriage’s motion.

  We head for Nuremberg. From a distance it provides us with a most glorious spectacle, medieval stone walls, gabled buildings, castle towers and church spires rising aloft from the Franconian plain. Smoke drifts into the grey sky from daytime fires. Nearing the city, a west wind starts to blow and turns the smoke back upon itself. It seems we undergo a gradual process of assimilation; as though we are being inhaled into the ramparts with the returning fumes. Within, we find a merry pandemonium, since the fair is come. Yet we can’t stay long – and beds are in short supply. Before we leave, I insist on a brief look down from the Kaiserburg over the two-part town, split by its constantly dividing river. My Lord enjoys a hurried dinner; Marie confines herself to the carriage: we thread our way through many timbered houses and are gone.

  Our journey time is cut, since the bogus Lord Douglas – still purporting to be an expert in minerals – no longer has to stop to examine every passing mine or rockface. He explains, with quiet content, to any dignitaries that he has already visited many of the sights; and besides, his position as Minister Plenipotentiary of France demands that he reach his goal with all possible speed.

  Throughout the lands of Prussia and her allies, we are careful not to say what that potential goal might be. This is of particular importance in the little town of Bayreuth, where the Margravine Wilhelmine, sister of King Frederick, has caused a fine opera house to be constructed within a baroque terrace. It tempts me beyond what I can bear. Simply by reading a playbill (and having Monin check my rudimentary understanding of the language), I discover that a performance of the “Four Seasons” by Vivaldi, an Italian composer I adore, is to take place upon the evening of our stay. I’m feeling starved of music and argue my case. Guerchy, predictably, is opposed to it, but, no doubt tiring of isolation, Marie sides with me, and with great reluctance he agrees to our whim.

  We enter the opera house as late as we dare before the concert is due to commence, without being so tardy that we immediately become the object of all eyes. It might therefore be a mistake that Marie wears her scarlet dress once more, but she looks so ravishing I cannot censure her.

  The ornate decoration within the theatre distracts me from her radiance. Painted in sea-green and fringed with red, yellow, white and gold, it is entirely constructed of wood, reminiscent of Elizabeth’s temporary Winter Palace. I am about to nudge Marie and point this out to her, when I reflect it might be imprudent, leading as it would to a host of unnecessary questions. Moreover, that would revive Guerchy, who is pleasingly subdued. I settle down in my seat, and content myself with surreptitious caresses of the wonderful red gown.

  While my hand is so delightfully employed, I scan the audience. Its members come from all parts of society, with townsfolk and even, at my guess, country farmers, ranged alongside the nobility – or what passes for such in this part of Germany. We are placed in boxes, every one of us, a fine democratic ideal, stretching around the auditorium on either side of the Margravine’s loge. Friedrich and Wilhelmine command this central box, the coats of arms of Prussia and of Brandenburg adorning the canopy, echoing those above the arch that crowns the enormous stage.

  The musicians march on: there comes a rat-a-tat from the conductor as his stick hits the stand. The opening bars lift me high into the air and I soar away, transported by the whirls of summer, follow
ing spring in such quick succession that I breathe only a few times before half the year is out. The splendour of the sun is all too brief. During the autumn I look up to the ceiling, expecting to see reddened leaves falling from the heavens, such is the power of the great allegro. Instead, Apollo and the Muses smile down upon me, regardless of winds or stormy weather. As winter comes, I am drawn back to the stage. The concert at this point, for no discernible reason apart from the worship of beauty, transmutes into a ballet. Troupes of petite ballerinas, including, I hear it whispered, the great Anna Fiorina, flood the stage and dance a most affecting finale to the piece. Young, slender bodies cavort in frocks of taffeta, their slim legs in their soft shoes rising and falling in perfect unison.

  The sublime music rushes towards its dying chords. Eyes shining, the ballerinas and their prima leave the stage. Next, conductor and musicians make their bows and follow them; we are echoing them, trying to glide away when a powerful female voice calls out: “You, sir!”

  We turn to face Wilhelmine herself: wigless, raising her fan towards us, white dress cascading in many folds to the floor, like the layers of a maiden’s wedding robe.

  Guerchy’s features freeze in alarm, yet he knows he cannot avoid an exchange. “Your servant, Margravine.”

  “We have not seen you here before,” says Wilhelmine, her mass of dark hair, with a white streak at the front, framing brown eyes in a face that gleams with intelligence.

  “Our carriage only arrived this afternoon, Your Highness.” Guerchy bows. “We had no wish to… that is to say, no time to call.” He glances at me. His brow above his granite face shows thunder.

  Through a single, long-stemmed eyeglass, Wilhelmine studies all three of us in turn. “What is your business here?”

  Guerchy clears his throat. “I am Lord Douglas, Minister Plenipotentiary of France, on my way to…”

  “Prussia, Your Highness” I say.

  He picks up the thread of my dissimulation. “Yes, Lady Douglas and I are on our way to Berlin.” Marie bobs down. “With my envoy, the Chevalier d’Éon,” his voice tapers away. It’s my turn to cough. “Er, de Beaumont,” he adds.